he be removed he cannot
last more than a month or two. This morning I saw the woman'--it was
thus he always referred to his sister-in-law--'and talked to her in
what was probably the plainest language she ever had the privilege of
hearing. It was a tremendous scene, brought to a close only by her
flinging herself on the sofa with shrieks which terrified the whole
household. My idea is that we must carry the poor fellow away by force.
His infatuation makes me rage and curse, but I am bent on trying to
save his life. Will you come and give your help?'

A week later they succeeded in carrying the invalid back to Torquay.
Mrs. Barfoot had abandoned him to his doctors, nurses, and angry
relatives; she declared herself driven out of the house, and went to
live at a fashionable hotel. Everard remained in Devon for more than a
month, devoting himself with affection, which the trial of his temper
seemed only to increase, to his brother's welfare. Thomas improved a
little; once more there was hope. Then on a sudden frantic impulse,
after writing fifty letters which elicited no reply, he travelled in
pursuit of his wife; and three days after his arrival in London he was
dead.

By a will, executed at Torquay, he bequeathed to Everard about a
quarter of his wealth. All the rest went to Mrs. Barfoot, who had
declared herself too ill to attend the funeral, but in a fortnight was
sufficiently recovered to visit one of her friends in the country.

Everard could now count upon an income of not much less than fifteen
hundred a year. That his brother's death would enrich him he had always
foreseen, but no man could have exerted himself with more ardent energy
to postpone that advantage. The widow charged him, wherever she
happened to be, with deliberate fratricide; she vilified his
reputation, by word of mouth or by letter, to all who knew him, and
protested that his furious wrath at not having profited more largely by
the will put her in fear of her life. This last remarkable statement
was made in a long and violent epistle to Miss Barfoot, which the
recipient showed to her cousin on the first opportunity. Everard had
called one Sunday morning--it was the end of March--to say good-bye on
his departure for a few weeks' travel. Having read the letter, he
laughed with a peculiar fierceness.

'This kind of thing,' said Miss Barfoot, 'may necessitate your
prosecuting her. There is a limit, you know, even to a woman's licence.'

'I am far